


Do Not Stand At My Grave and Weep

by Litsetaure



Category: Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them (Movies), Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, Emotional Hurt, Gellert is a mess, Happy Ending, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Memories, The Nurmengard Years, song-fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-15
Updated: 2020-02-15
Packaged: 2021-02-27 22:01:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,967
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22732972
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Litsetaure/pseuds/Litsetaure
Summary: Gellert was alone for so long.
Relationships: Albus Dumbledore/Gellert Grindelwald
Comments: 3
Kudos: 42





	Do Not Stand At My Grave and Weep

**Author's Note:**

  * For [AlbusGellertAlways](https://archiveofourown.org/users/AlbusGellertAlways/gifts).



_Do not stand at my grave and weep,_

_I am not there, I do not sleep._

There never had been very much colour in Nurmengard. The walls held the same bland stone as the floor and ceiling, the only contrast being the dark spots and streaks where water had leaked in through the cracks. Even the occasional clumps of mould, normally such a bright and virulent blue, seemed to have had all the life drained from them, and now they stared, pale and feeble, blinking into the vacant sea of nothingness.

How, Gellert had often wondered during his long years of imprisonment, could any scene be more soul-sucking than this? Trapped in these four monotonous walls, with the only light coming from a single slit window. He constantly turned from it though, not wishing to be taunted by the memory of the world beyond these ghastly bricks. 

But then, all at once, the constant noise in his head stopped, leaving a split second of ice-cold silence behind. His stomach lurched as he recognised the signs from his past reading, but he did not have time to brace himself before a wild scream of heartache released all the sorrows of the ages and sent them burning through his mind like acid, enveloping him in stifling darkness. 

Gellert did not dare open his eyes, even when the screaming stopped. In fact, he did not need to; he knew only too well what he would see. He knew that the tiny facets of colour he had managed to glean would be wiped away, leaving behind only bitter shades of monochrome. 

Still, he found that his eyes were being dragged open against his will, and he was forced to face the truth. 

He would never see the colours of the world again. Not now that...that he was gone.

_I am a thousand winds that blow._

_I am the diamond glint on snow._

It had been said, almost since the beginning of time, that the human heart was one of the most beautiful and yet dangerous things in the world. It was capable of holding the greatest love, compassion and loyalty, but it could also carry incomprehensible cruelty, malice and poisonous anger. And yet, such storm clouds of vitriol were not the greatest reason for it to be so perilous. Instead, the worst danger the human heart held was in its simple fragility, in the knowledge that it was often the invisible scars that could cause the worst pain.

Gellert had learned the truth of that from a very young age, even before he had begun to attend school. Still, he had ignored the signs, had forced his feelings as far back into himself as he was able to, determined not to show any weakness that could be preyed upon.

But that all changed one day when, at the age of thirteen, he stepped up to participate in Durmstrang’s ancient ‘Heart of Glass’ ceremony. The headmistress had made the traditional speech about the importance of this day and how it marked a new understanding of themselves.

Gellert could remember watching his classmates receive their shining talisman, eagerly watching them for any change and comparing them with those of their friends. He himself had forced the walls he had built around him to grow stronger and higher than ever before. It had hurt and left him feeling utterly weighed down, but he had known that he had no choice. 

But the moment the glass heart sat warm in his hand, a web of marks and cracks began to spread over it, filling it with a sharp broken mist. His watching classmates had gasped, some had even cried out, falling backwards in alarm; apparently, they had also somehow been able to sense the searing pain rushing through Gellert as, shaking and almost numb with shock, had stumbled back from the dais and rushed out of the hall. 

_I am the sunlight on ripened grain._

_I am the gentle autumn rain._

But Gellert had still treasured his damaged heart. He kept it with him always, protected it as though it was a close friend, his only friend. He even caught himself sometimes speaking to it, not expecting any response, and yet somehow feeling lighter in himself, as though someone, or something, out there could hear him and comfort him, give him that feeling of being safe and understood.

Then came that glorious summer, those months when Gellert realised that perhaps it was true; perhaps he did not have to be alone after all. Finally, there was someone out there for him, someone who treated him not as a threat or an abomination, but instead as an equal - a boy with hopes and dreams and fears, just like anyone else. 

Even now, decades later, he still managed to hold onto those once cherished recollections. He clung to thoughts of the two of them settled under a tree discussing their plans or simply debating the merits of a book or other piece of art. But the one recollection that still burned bright through the brutal fog of misery and solitude was the balmy evening when they had met in the orchard, surrounded by apple blossoms. The moment when he had placed his cracked, imperfect and cherished heart in Albus’ hands. As he had told his story and seen his partner’s genuine love and acceptance of him, he had felt that, at last, there was someone who would care and understand him just as he was. Not merely as an exceptionally powerful and gifted wizard, but just him. Just Gellert, with all his virtues and vices.

“Ha!” The bitter scoff reverberated coldly around the painfully silent walls. He felt as though it sent his bright memories shattering into ashes and ruin a it echoed back all the pain he had felt during two of the most devastating moments of his life.

The first, though agonising, he knew could hardly have been a surprise. After what had happened, after what he had done - what they had all done - he could hardly have expected Albus to have kept his gift, nor for it to have been returned to him intact. Still, he could not hide the ache inside him as he found his aunt’s note, filled with regret and sorrow, lying beneath the broken pieces of glass. He had barely held back scalding tears as he wrapped each piece in fabric and placed them away in a locked drawer, never to be seen again. 

At least, that was what he had thought at the time. It had stayed, hidden away in dark secrecy, for more than forty years. And yet, it had always been prominent in his thoughts, so much so that, when he was brought back to Nurmengard a broken and defeated prisoner, he knew that he had to have it there with him. It was the one small token he was permitted. 

Once in his prison cell, he had opened the parcel with Albus watching on, hoping that the sight might catch his former lover’s memory and soften his heart enough to allow Gellert a quick and painless death rather than an eternity of terrible solitude. 

Except that when he unfurled the fabric bindings, all he found was a heap of tiny glass particles concealing a worn and faded piece of parchment covered in faded and barely legible writing. And if Albus had recognised it at all, he had given no sign. Instead, he had turned away and locked the cell door, leaving Gellert with nothing more than a ruined memory of a love he had thought would never die.

_When you wake in the morning hush,_

_I am the swift, uplifting rush_

_Of quiet birds in circling flight._

_I am the soft starlight at night._

He had often tried to convince himself that it hadn’t really been real. That Albus had simply used him during those glorious summer months. That he had been bored, trapped in the burdens of domesticity and had seen Gellert and his plans as little more than a way out. An exit strategy. A way to break away from the dull monotony that his life had become. But of course, in the end, he had never intended for them to do it. He had never wanted things to change. Instead, he was quite happy hiding behind his walls. Or, if not happy, then not frustrated enough to try to make things better. To take the plunge. To fight for what was right. 

“I was little more than a diversion for you, wasn’t I?” he laughed harshly to himself, not for the first time. He thought it would make it better, make it easier to bear. Allow him to move on. To let go. 

But it didn’t. It never did. It only ever made it worse. And, as time marched tirelessly on, a nagging thought had begun to worm its way into his brain. For years, he had ignored it and denied it, even derided it as the false hope of a foolish and idealistic child. 

But as the years grew longer and the days began to bleed together, he felt his carefully constructed ideals begin to weaken. His mind began to replay moments of tenderness and laughter, moments that had made him feel safe and complete. Still, he tried to turn from them, but his cruel and traitorous heart refused to allow it. He spent hours focusing on the crushed remains of his heart, now scattered all over his battered cell, trying to remind himself of the significance of such total destruction of the symbol. Still, the memories came, whispering like a light summer’s breeze and melting the resolute ice that had protected him for so many years, forcing him to bear witness to the truth.

And yet, it was not until that moment when his days turned grey and his nights turned blacker than black, that he truly allowed that truth in and accepted that he had been so wrong.

“It wasn’t a lie,” he whispered to himself one night. “It was real. It was always real.”

From that moment onwards, Gellert knew that he had to protect Albus in any way he could. He channeled what little energy and resolve he still had into that task. He had to show that he understood now, that he knew what a mistake it was to give in to despair and doubt. This, now, was his reason to fight - his true Greater Good.

He knew, of course, that to do such a thing would ultimately mean he was walking to his death. But that knowledge brought him neither anger nor sorrow. Rather, he felt relief. He wanted death to come for him, to grant him the chance to atone for his mistakes, to do what he knew to be right. 

And so it was, when the grey dusk of that too silent day in March fell, he knew. His heart began to race as the tall shadow fell across his cell and red serpentine eyes glared menacingly from a pale, once-handsome face ravaged by sickening magic. 

A sudden wave of fury cascaded through him and before his visitor had even finished whatever speech he might have made, Gellert was laughing madly and throwing out his hands, red with blood from being embedded with glass shards, in an expression of macabre triumph.

“Kill me then, Voldemort, I welcome death!” he roared, his voice stronger than it had sounded for a long time. “But my death will not bring you what you seek! There is so much you do not understand!”

He could almost feel the other’s renewed anger, it almost burned through the stone. But he was not afraid. He knew this was his time; to laugh in the face of a burst of screaming light and an Aramaic curse from the mouth of a creature of pure evil. He was ready. 

This was his time.

_Do not stand at my grave and weep._

_I am not there, I do not sleep._

The stark bright light hit him the moment he opened his eyes, piercing its way through his mind. He shivered in anguish, unable to hold back a whimper at the feeling of burning acid being poured on an already raw and weeping wound. He closed his eyes again, but it made no difference. Instead of the soothing relief of the darkness, he was tortured with the memories of his final moments. His last stand, the words that had felt so proud and defiant at the time, now felt weak and lost, as though he were nothing more than a man who had nothing left to stay alive for. Even remembering the deadly light blazing towards him gave him no peace, for he now knew that there had been another spell concealed behind it. The spell that had torn his dying mind apart, exposing every truth, every secret had had held close to his chest, from the trivial to the devastating. 

He did not want to open his eyes, knowing what he would see. He could not abide the thought that his final act, his last effort to protect the man he had loved above all else...that it had been in vain. As long as he did not look, as long as he remained wilfully blind, perhaps he could convince himself that it was not true, that Albus still lay safe, his rest undisturbed. 

But even then, his hearing betrayed him; even in death it could not conceal the unearthly cracking and scraping of stone on stone, nor the fragmented, excited breaths, a worse chill than the touch of a Dementor. 

Against his will, as if it were a penance, Gellert’s eyes prised themselves open and he was forced to watch, powerless, unable to even scream, as the dark-robed man reached into the desecrated tomb, drawing out the wand. Its power sang out, rich and cunning, as the terrible wizard ran his long fingers over the wood, his terrible eyes dancing with excitement as his mouth twitched into a cruel smile. 

Riddle looked up, towards the skies, silent for a moment, calculating. Then, with a wild cry of vindictive triumph, he sent a blast of white lightning burning through the trees and whiting out the sky.

Gellert fell to whatever ground was beneath him then, a howl like a feral beast torn apart from his mate, escaped his lips. Hot tears streamed from his eyes, scalding his cheeks, but he did not wipe them away. He could not, trapped as he was by the landscape of his failure, unable to turn away.

“I tried,” he whispered into the nothingness, his fists clenched together. “I really did try. I never wanted this fate for you...”

Something brushed over his back then, so softly he wondered if he had imagined it at first. But then it touched him again, this time on top of his head, sending tendrils of hair brushing over his face. He almost froze in shock, barely managing to reach out and grab the hanging locks. Even through his tear-soaked monochromatic sight, he recognised the lustrous curls of his youth, filled with life and vigour, nothing like the man he had become.

A hand slowly closed around his arm, turning him around and easing him to his feet. At the same time, he felt something shift within him; a strange warmth, cautious and weak at first, beginning to spread towards his silent heart. He neither felt nor heard it beat, but he was sure that his vision was beginning to shift, as though a veil was being lifted. He brushed back his hair carefully and saw, to his shock, that the curls running through his fingers seemed to be fighting with their surroundings, fighting to take on that warm golden hue of his youth. He cried out in surprise and alarm - how was this even possible? - and leapt back, out of reach, making to run away and hide, though he knew not where. 

But when he turned around, any thought of escaping vanished as soon as it had come. For the first time, he looked around properly and took in his surroundings. True, the view appeared as though through a cloud of white mist, but he could easily recognise it. The pale evening sun, seeming to struggle to break through the shield that drained it of its colour, streaming in from the window and catching the straw strewn on the floor. The cobwebs clinging to the beams of the roof, tiny droplets of dew glistening on their luminous strands. And there, that single empty space, just large enough for two people to stand, right in the middle of an old village barn.

Except that it was not empty at all. A figure stood there, someone who Gellert knew only too well, but could hardly allow himself to believe it. He tried to speak, to choke out a name, but all that escaped him was a fresh storm of weeping when the spectre broke free of the mist, coming closer, becoming increasingly solid. He was watching Gellert and though his lips showed no sign of a smile, his eyes held the gentlest and most understanding glow he had seen, and one that was brightening from a monochrome white to the crystal blue of a warm lagoon.

He reached out to clasp Gellert’s hand, pressing it to his lips, and then drew him close, holding him in his arms and pressing their foreheads together. And, in that moment, the final colourless curtain of darkness fell away around them, surrounding Gellert with the warmth and joy of a rainbow; a rainbow brought to life by one tender whisper.

“Do not stand at my grave and cry.

I am not there, I did not die.”


End file.
